Neville's Snare
by SeasonVelvet
Summary: Stuttering, blushing, indignantly stubborn in the face of debauchery, Neville.
1. Anxiety and Waiting

I felt there was somewhat of a dearth of fanfiction concerninging itself with Neville, and Neville with the character I plan to bring into the equation somewhere down the line as the event of his rebellion unfolds. I had planned for it to involve scenes of a sexual kind (mostly timid and tame), though not strictly consensual. However, the more I began to write, the less I appreciated such a noncanon situation with potentially dispiriting consequences, for I have come to like my character of Neville and no longer want to relegate him to a position of initially-innocent-lamb-turned-smut-cohort-with-ambiguously-immoral-and-questionably-gay-antagonist-to-be-left-perplexed-and-mortified-and-questioning-the-world. Yes, slash. But now I wonder, and so I cannot say exactly where I'm going to take this story. Well, I hope you enjoy it none the less.

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**Neville's Snare**

He slid through the inconspicuously ajar door, whisking himself away with more lithe than he would have been capable of but a year ago. He spared no glance into the bright classroom, with its long thick black table tops and matching stools, high and wide windows spanning the entire south side facing the grounds, and slipshod arrangement of objects including but certainly not limited to a single globe and wooden hat rack. Instead he immediately turned on his heel and crouched down to peer out between the heavy old wooden door and its frame into the great hallway.

He leaned forward on an outstretched arm to inspect both ends – still deserted, no sign of Peeves, Filch, or Mrs. Norris. There was no sigh of relief; only acknowledgement of the situation, for the presence of either of those bodies was largely inconsequential to his plans. He would act no matter what the obstacle, no matter what the consequence. Though he would honestly like it if things went smoothly, how often did they? Neville was not a pessimistic person, as far as many things went, but years of dumb failure, clumsy humiliation, and most recently horrible injustice, had embittered his natural optimism.

Still, he had no wish to be seen, so his fingers lightly grasped the edge of the door and slowly pulled it in towards himself, leaving but a few centimeters through which to peer. He had not much scope, but it was space enough to allow the end of a wand.

His dress shirt and slacks stretched and tightened over his crouched and bent limbs, which were becoming slightly pained, though he paid no attention to his physical frustration. His attention was wholly absorbed in the stark, vacant and echo-y silent passage. In the soon to abate quite however he became aware of his still somewhat labored breaths, left over from his race to beat all others out of class, and absent mindedly wiped his forehead on the end of his sleeve; a rushed and half-hazard swipe, it was jerky and anxious. He gripped and rolled his wand tightly in the sweaty hand at his side.

Alright – he was not the brave, courageous, newly buffed and suddenly worthy hero people had wanted, want, had needed, need. Deep down . . . and not even that deep, just all around, he was still Neville. Stuttering, blushing, indignantly stubborn in the face of debauchery, Neville. He didn't understand what people went on about, admiring heroes and the like – you just do what you have to do. _And, and if no one else was going to do it, well, well then he would, he would just have to do it himself. No big deal, really, no big deal . . . Yeah. He would do it, he would show them all, those Death Eaters. Yeah! Dumbledore's Army! WE'RE DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY, AND WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE THIS ANYMORE!_

He shifted his weight slightly, placing his elbow on his thigh and resting his chin in his palm, still watching alertly. He had left Herbology ten minutes before the end of class, having guiltily but with resolve fed Mrs. Sprout a line about feeling ill, desiring to head up to the infirmary. While he had been simply glad to be released when she had told him to please leave, by all means if he felt he must, he would wonder later about the arrangement of her features, the strange look she gave, and he would question whether she had truly believed him, or had indeed thought he was not being truthful. The stuttering, blushing Neville would return when he thought about Mrs. Sprout knowing he had lied to her; her most faithful, promising pupil.

As soon as he was out of eye sight of the greenhouses, he had dashed off to the castle and speed walked along the corridors, neck twisting to look this way and that, deliriously panicky he would be seen and questioned as to the why's and how's of his being there when classes were not yet released. He imagined Snape's cruel, maliciously glinting eyes and his thin, disgustingly sneering lips pouring odious hatred down upon him, insults as thick and black as tar spewing from his dead mouth to cover Neville's pale, doe face, to sink into his pores and choke the life out of him.

Fortunately, nothing of the sort came to pass, and crazy with worry and excitement came Neville safely through the door into the classroom. The hair at the base of his neck was still damp with sweat, though most of it was tufted about, framing his cheeks; dark matte locks of brown reaching and curling up under his ears, looking heavy. His skin, though pale, had also a beige translucency to it, as if had the tinniest bit of olive tint, and an exquisite claret flush was always ready to rise to the occasion to finish the look with just a dash of youthful innocence and vigor.

He would never be considered "hot", nor anything near STUD material – too introverted with perceivable sagacity, sedentary, too into Herbology, which as an interest was hardly indicative of coolness, previously too unremarkable and unconfident, and perhaps in light of his recent "hero" label, his quiet nature was even intimidating to the more extroverted and insecure girls who relied upon obvious forms of attention from their more shallow male wooers. Maybe they even thought, perhaps, that he was above them, that he would not appreciate them – although Neville would scarcely depreciate anyone who did even as little as simply be kind to him. It can be said, too, that he did not generally seem interested, was never caught up in the drama and play of teenage sexual energy. But who really knows about these things? Who knows what went on in his mind at night, during class, in the common room among hordes of merrily chatting and animated people, his age, engaging in things of excitement and importance while he was alone, with nothing and no one?

When he was being humiliated by Snape and attempting to pour ingredients into a pungent cauldron with erratic and tremble hands? When he was walking out of St. Mungo's with a slippery bubble gum wrapper being caressed in his pocket?

Well, maybe we can guess, then, what he might have been thinking, but we needn't brandish it.

To the right person, however, the doughy suppleness of his skin, the dull lustre of his hair, the intensity and sincerity of his tenebrous brown gaze (the effect this look had on people less authentic than himself he did not know), that he could get mad and sad and turned on like anybody else, would be appreciated and matched by a soul just as great and worthy. But that would not be now, nor can anyone claim that it would be ever.

A confetti of voices and a bedlam of footfalls and swishing clothing reached him lightly from a ways off, getting louder and more pronounced at an almost alarming rate considering his long wait in complete non-activity. When things happen they come hard and leave fast. From which pole of the hallway people were moving in like swarms of locusts to devour the harvest, as Filch would imagine them (a plague on all our houses!), it was impossible to discern. But of course it was both. He poised himself and held his wand aloft; his breath hitched in a sudden chill but his eye brows were stern with resolute decision. In sudden acute fear he touched the door as if to bring it in that magic miniscule fraction of a millimeter which would stop him from being seen. Though if he actually closed the door any more he would scarce be able to see anything but blobs of shadow, even less be able to cast through such a crack.

He began to feel a prickling and tingling of anxiety at the back of his neck, little needle points in a jitter-bug dance inside his skin. His lips parted, gradually peeling away from one another as breath glided over them in a 'get ready, set, go' kind of release. Faint shadows stretched to a point before his door, the fluctuating silhouettes of lumbering students as they made their ways down the hall. From his point of view they almost looked like encroaching flames, tints of grey bringing ill tidings.

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To be continued . . .


	2. Aphrodisia

Oye vey -- I have written this introduction already, but one ill-fated click of some mystery key and all was deleted. I shall write it shortly, then: Be patient with the diction. I do not mean to be pretentious or absurdly difficult -- that is simply how I write. I am not talented at it, but I do enjoy writing stories I myself would like to read, but have not found. Most fanfictions are quick and easy, and you extract it's essence into yourself like tossing some airy, buttery popcorn into your mouth. That is what makes them enjoyable; they are bite-sized, perhaps immaturely written, yet still incredibly potent and engaging. With this one, take a little time, and hopefully you'll be able to extract those same feelings and senses I tried to engender with my descriptions.

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He once again rolled his wand around in his moist grip, clutching and releasing it repeatedly as his knuckles flashed from white to red. Teenagers finally came into view, first one and then twenty. His gaze zigzagged from various pairs of eyes and mouths and noses and hair styles like some kind of computer recognition technology searching for its designated missile target. He observed rather detachedly mouths opening and closing in conversation, the audio mute and out of sync to his ears. The way the black uniform cloak trims brushed the floor and backpacks hung half hazardly off shoulders gave him a great sense of nostalgia, despite still technically being inside Hogwarts. Yet he felt outside of their gaiety now, as they chatted and laughed, nodding or gesturing in good humor to each other, barely paying attention to the scores of other bodies around them. He had never quite belonged, really, but he identified with everything just as anyone else might, in his own way. He observed; if strangers laughed he was glad for their laughter, he smiled at houses that had been decorated with care for various holidays by the families inside, he secretly enjoyed fierce storm weather because it meant everyone was experiencing something together. There was an almost tangible energy in the air on those days, a buzzing, a sense of altruism and community; he would smile quietly to himself, happy for it, hair wet and limp from rain or snow. He could feel at home on the bus, warm and secure bumbling down the road with people off all ages and backgrounds, just another forgettable face in the crowd.

Perhaps this was part of why he was taken with plants, taken with their magic and enchantment, bewitched by the scents of devilishly luscious flowers and the lively greens of exploring vines. He was a part of nature, could experience it fully – in peace. No eyes to look upon him and judge him, no nerve wracking conversation to try to save from its eventual and awkward death into tense silence. They were a world of fantasy and beauty, the greenhouses. It was a peaceful erotica, a serene seduction, as he would trail his fingers along textured stems and leaves, lean in to smell the opened blooms, eyes fluttering shut in heart-swelling, overwhelmingly joyous contentment for one rich moment. The plants did not care if his hands were smudged with ink, with soil ingrained into the lines and crevices of his finger tips. They did not care that they were not the fine, delicate hands of pianists, able to make music with the press of steely ivory. No. He could be Just Neville. At least until someone else wandered into the greenhouse, and he had to blush and stutter excuses, stumbling his way out in a blinding haze of mortification.

He would rather be there now, than here. What had he been thinking, to enact his own stealthy vengeance, an entirely rash and risky undertaking, and so afraid of it that he had avoided actually thinking about it until this doomed and crucial moment? He felt as if he were before the Great Gates, waiting to be judged, but lost to cowering in a cold sweat and cringing away from the gaze of God like some unworthy worm.

The Slytherins deserved to pay -- if he would place the word 'deserve' anywhere near Slytherins. But was it now, by his hand? The idea had come to him in potions, fittingly. He had been stooped over the festering, goopy grey potion in his cauldron. It bubbled and spit, with fetid trails of smoke and fumes rising out of it in evil swirls, like skeletal hands reaching out for his neck. He had irrationally personified it into a seething, sinister old man with his own wicked will to catch him off guard and suck him in to drown in the grey depths, face first without any chance to escape. He imagined his muffled gurgling cries and wildly waving arms as the boisterous class pointed and died of laughter at the spectacle that was him, yet again.

His shoulders were pained from leaning over his cauldron, gawkily adding ingredients and stirring with one hand, and flipping desperately through the soiled and crinkled pages of his falling apart potions textbook with the other. Already it was hopeless. He stole a look at the cauldron of Missy Floggerwurtzt Lefevre to his right, taking care not to be noticed doing so. Thankfully she was talking with her partner, Matilda Greenblaught Rosier.

It was a perfect pink; he could almost _taste_ how perfect it was. Little tendrils of sparkly swirl rose above the potion, seeming to form little hearts and stars; its mother-of-pearl surface shimmered and rippled lightly. He was entranced for a moment before moving his gaze to its maker, Missy. _Of course her potion is brilliant_, he thought, catching an intoxicating whiff of the wondrous, Alice Pink mist; he noted her white teeth, clean and shiny nails, and the impeccable state of her robes. The carnation glow of the potion was reflected on Missy's fair, golden cheeks. Her flaxen hair fell down in buoyant curls, and her striking cornflower blue eyes flashed their long, black lashes, with lips as pink as spring rose buds . . . the epitome of pure blood beauty. He shook his head mellifluously, and felt in a tender daze of scents and fragrances and flowers and supple petals that he could not help imagining Missy as one great, beautiful blossom, and he felt the longing of the greenhouses. He blinked rapidly, focusing slowly; the potion must have gone to his head, beguiled him.

Suddenly, those blue eyes were looking back at him. They narrowed in disdain. He started and raised his eye brows in surprise, gaping momentarily, frozen. He twisted so forcefully back to face his own cauldron that the whole desk buckled, twinkling the stacked vials in their vial rack and sloshing some potion onto the cement floor in front of him. It hissed like a match being struck, the sickly green of it making it look as though someone had been ill.

His face flamed, a gigantic wave of hot iciness travelling over his entire body, like when you place your hands under water so hot it's cold. He suddenly felt as though he were in a sauna, sweating profusely with no other cause than his humiliation. He kept his head down and stared determinedly at the black table top, though he could not block his ears from what was surely soon to be Missy and Matilda's high, scornful laughter or their uninspired but still cutting remarks.

"Oh look, Missy, it looks like we have an admirer!" Matilda cooed, and cackled gleefully. _Here it comes_, he thought, his features tensing in morbid anticipation.

But no, that wasn't the worst part. It was Missy's reaction. He could have dealt with cruelty, with laughter; he was accustomed, though still never used to, it. Missy, however, remained stoic and impassive, only commenting in a cool tone, "Do not be so licentious, Mattie." and forthwith pretending, the requisite of any perfect pureblood woman, her eyes had never seen him, the unseemly scene never occurred, and nothing had ever disturbed her serenity. Matilda quickly composed herself beside her, acknowledging the unspoken pureblood hierarchy. Friendship was not a thing of affection and ardor in Slytherin (well, at least not in the public eye); but an agreement of mutual benefit. A camaraderie of similar aspirations, wherein each party reciprocally aids the other towards each desired end. A business arrangement, if you will. Take Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle par exemple; Malfoy needed a posse, Crabbe and Goyle needed direction. Hardly a communion of sanctity.

This shamed him more than anything else could have; her complete and cemented status as above him. The mature poise and complete superiority with which she dealt with the situation cast a shadow on the rest of them; he the fool, Matilda the wench. He hadn't even meant to look at her! He dejectedly lumbered around to the gelatinous glob of goo that was, supposed to be at any rate, his Amortentia brew. By the stench of it, he reckoned, he must fancy something akin to what decaying flesh might smell like.

_Ace_.


End file.
